


Unkempt

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27831349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Basch is distracted in the Tomb of Raithwall.
Relationships: Vossler York Azelas/Basch fon Ronsenburg
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Unkempt

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XII or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They’re all sweat-slicked and breathing hard, hot under their clothes, squirming in their armour because the desert sand’s gotten into all those hard to reach places. Fran is the most graceful about her discomfort, Vaan the least, and Basch himself is a muddy wreck vainly trying to hold himself together. If he doesn’t feel the part, he can at least look it, because he _must_ be strong for his princess. He tries to keep his mind on the party—on surviving a dusty tomb full of death and nightmares. Even the walls and statues break before them, looming up in ancient glory before lunging down with bared teeth and fangs. Basch slices through them and suffers the dark fog that drizzles out in their wake. His biggest solace is those that fight beside him—proven allies, his future queen, and most of all, an old friend. 

Vossler is the one his eyes keep going to when they shouldn’t. The lot of them turn a corner in the maze-like labyrinth of crumbling stone, and while the others rush towards another wraith, Basch’s gaze catches on Vossler’s hair, particularly tangled and filthy—how badly it needs a brush. There was a time when Basch would brush it for him, safely retired in their camp, away from the prying eyes of other soldiers. Basch would drag his comb through each voracious knot and grin when Vossler growled. Then Vossler would return the favour, because Basch is no better, and either of them would take any excuse for intimacy.

This war is worse than any they’ve faced before, their odds hopeless, and they both know there’s no time for niceties or affection. They barely even trust each other. But Basch welcomes his captain anyway and knows he would follow Vossler almost anywhere. 

It would be nice if he could follow Vossler to a dark corner, shove Vossler up against the massive columns, press a knee between his thighs and drag their bodies together, feel all the hard muscle that Basch has lost. Vossler’s still as broad as ever, as thick and _strong_ , relentless in battle and probably still in bed. Worst of all is the glittering armour that highlights his chest, and the gap it has around his throat. Basch has been swallowing down fantasies of that for the better pat of a decade—lewd daydreams of running his tongue across Vossler’s exposed collarbone, dipping down between his pecs and rising up over his throat, pausing to bite into his collar. The leather strap around his neck has always made Basch want to tie a leash to it and _pull him closer_ , bring him in for the kind of passion they only let out on the battlefield. 

Every time Vossler turns towards him, Basch wants to kiss that patch of bronzed skin so badly that he can want little else, so he marches ahead, denying himself the sight. Perhaps it would be wiser to keep a guest in their party under his watchful eye, but Vossler looks too good from behind, to delectable in profile. Basch stays behind the pirates when they reach a crossroads, but Vossler takes up the rear. 

Fran drifts forward, nose to the air. Vaan and Penelo watch her in awe, and Balthier hovers faithfully behind, Ashe tense at his side. Basch waits for Fran to find the Mist or Ashe to sense her destiny.

Footsteps echo behind him, but Basch doesn’t turn. He should. It’s been too many years where too much has happened, too much could’ve changed, but in his heart, he trusts Vossler anyway. He lets Vossler come up behind him, lets one metal-clad arm reach around his middle, even lets one leg thrust behind his. Basch hisses but doesn’t move. A part of him thinks this is it: they’re betrayed, and he’ll fall first for his own foolishness. But then he feels Vossler grind into him and knows it isn’t that. 

“I did miss you,” Vossler breathes in his ear. Vossler reeks of grime, but Basch welcomes it. He loves the scratch of Vossler’s stubble. He welcomes more of Vossler’s touch, tracing down his open tunic, reaching to grip his crotch. Vossler squeezes him tight through his breeches and hisses, “I hope we get a chance to rest soon before it all falls to pieces, so I can taste you one last time.”

The words are low, raspy, and should have more fire—instead, Basch can pick up on a tremour of sorrow in Vossler’s voice. Basch says with enough feigned confidence for both of them, “It will not be our last. We will survive and see the Lady Ashe take her throne.”

Before Vossler’s talented fingers can make him think of anything else, he elbows his old friend in the ribs, and Vossler grunts as he pulls back. Basch steps forward, shooting a fierce look over his shoulder. 

Vossler’s expression is stone again, nearly unreadable, maybe conflicted. But he nods like he _wants_ to trust Basch. Basch wants only one thing more. 

Ashe declares, “This way,” and the future of Dalmasca marches on, so Basch goes faithfully with her.


End file.
